Extortion, Part III
El Amatillo, Honduras
Note: To read from the beginning, click here.
With computer problems solved, Boat Shoes returns to my forms, forms he's laid eyes on three times now. Then, there's a pained face, gurgling and groaning. He says there's a problem -- a big, big problem. His finger bounces between two lines on the form, lines where I'd confused marca (brand) with placa (plate) in the vehicle information section, realized my mistake, carefully crossed out my plate number and wrote "GMC".
The woman at the data entry office had been able to read it -- and take my last $11 for typing the hand-printed form. But, No, said Boat Shoes, this will not do. No, no, no...this will not do at all. He hands me back my forms, stamped and payed for, says a quick something to Jerry-Curl and turns around, back to his work.
Jerry-Curl and I look at each other. Anticipation like a Western movie duel. I'm waiting for him to tell me what's next. He's waiting for me to understand what just happened and react, as he knows I will, in panic. It's me who flinches: What do I do now? Can I have a fresh form? I'm sputtering like a wind-up duck.
Yes, you can have a new form.
Relief.
But you'll have to repeat the entire process -- with the bank, the data entry office, the stamps. You'll have to pay for each again.
He smiles a wicked half-smile. He has me.
This is where the logic hurts: even if we accept this $53 extortion, in the name of sanity and our desire to reach Nicaragua, there isn't another $53 to spend. Not today. We withdrew our last $200 from our international checking account in San Miguel; we're waiting for a transfer from our second, American checking account, to go through before we could get more. That wouldn't happen for days. We'd figured $200 would be more than enough to get from San Miguel, to Leon, with a full tank of gas and a 10-hour drive. We were wrong.
Jerry-Curl is enjoying this. I should have paid to have the form completed for me, since clearly I don't understand the language. There's nothing he can do, I simply have to pay again. It's the rules, he tells me. He's not being cruel, just professional, like Boat Shoes.
This is when I realize that this isn't going to be easy. It's definitely not about a scratch on th form, but it might not be about money either. This is punishment, or sadism. Whatever it is, it's not a matter of smiling warmly, apologizing for my mistake.
And if Jerry-Curl refuses to let me pass, we'll have to turn Dolly around and return to San Miguel, two hours away, where we can use our credit card on an overpriced hotel room and wait for our transfer to go through. Then come back to the border and do it again.
So, with nothing left to do, I beg. I tell him we're out of money, that we're only passing through. We just need to get to Leon. He's unmoved. He has me follow him out of the office, across the street, to an unmarked building. He goes in, motioning for me to stand outside and wait for him. When he comes out a few minutes later, he shrugs. Nope, like I told you before, there's nothing we can do. He's been with the administrator.
I stand there. Blink a few times in silence, and start to cry.
It wasn't a proud moment, but the combination of overwhelming frustration coupled with some small knowledge that crying might save me, took hold. It's pathetic, I know. A humiliation I'd like not to have granted. But this is how it goes, when logic is against you, you use what you can.
Well, can I speak to the administrator? He shrugs, disgusted, and opens the door.
To be continued...
Freda Moon
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